


It's The End Of The World As We Know It

by Popcornjones



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Apocalypse, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Mystrade Fanworks Fest, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmarks, finding your soulmate, finding your soulmate in the apocalypse, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23418259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: I've been reading a LOT of Mystrade Soulmate Week fics and, despite the week being over, was inspired to write my own.This is what happens when the world ends and a whole new world begins at the same time.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 102
Collections: MYSTRADE





	It's The End Of The World As We Know It

When one’s soulmate turned, the soulmark on the uninfected partner didn’t dissolve, it disappear leaving nought but despair in its wake, as when one partner died.

No, that wasn’t right, it didn’t dissolve... when one’s soulmate _turned_ , the soulmark changed from vibrant colour to a mordant grey. All sensation where the mark lay ceased, the flesh there dead to the touch. 

Lestrade knew this first hand — he’d been with Sherlock when the bright oceanic blue on his fingertips faded to grey.

Sherlock had looked confused at first. He’d dropped the bartitsu stick he’d been wielding and stared at his hand. Lestrade had had to be quick on his feet, jumping in front of the consulting detective and using the cricket bat to smash the skulls of the approaching quartet. It had been a near thing, taking out all four by himself.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” Lestrade had exclaimed after he’d used the butt of the bat to keep the fourth from biting his arm, shoving it into her mouth and kicking her to the ground before reversing the bat and crushing her skull. He wanted to yell at the idiot, but he kept his voice down — no use attracting more of the creatures. “I almost got bit.”

He turned to find the younger man staring at grey fingertips in horror. 

“John...” The name was a desperate moan.

“Oh God, Sherlock.” Lestrade didn’t have a soulmate — or he hadn’t found his, many people didn’t. He had no vibrant soulmark where his skin had first come in contact with his soulmate’s.

Now odds were even greater that it would never happen.

“I have to go to the clinic.... I have to find him!” Sherlock cried and started towards the mouth of the alley. 

Lestrade grabbed him and shoved him against the brick wall, pinning him there with his weight. “No! You’ll never make it!” He hissed. A horde had taken over the high street, cutting them off. They had taken shelter in the alley for lack of anywhere better.

“I HAVE TO FIND HIM!” 

Too loud! “Now you’ve done it!” The horde would be on them soon.

“Lestrade...!” Sherlock struggled — and sobbed — and Lestrade abruptly realised that the man’s legendary brain had abandoned him. Sherlock was not rational.

“Sherlock! Listen! We’ll go to the clinic, we’ll find John — but not that way! We’ll never make it that way!”

His words must have gotten through — Sherlock stopped struggling and focussed on him.

“Then how?” His voice was piteous.

Lestrade pulled him deeper into the alley searching for an escape — it was blind and he prayed it wasn’t a dead end. The horde had definitely noticed them, had begun to flood the narrow mews. He wished they were slower, like in the cinema. He wished Sherlock hadn’t dropped his weapon.

“There!” Lestrade pointed — a fire escape. “If we can move that skip underneath, we can reach the ladder!” Up was good. The infected had trouble with up.

Sherlock nodded grimly and they began attempting to shove the skip under the fire escape. It was heavy and the noise it made scraping over the pavement was deafening. They didn’t have much time! Lestrade put his back into it, using his legs — he’d been a bit of an athlete back in the day, and he hadn’t gone completely to pot. 

“Lestrade!”

The warning came just in time — Lestrade got his bat between himself and the poor infected soul coming towards him. But there were a hundred right behind! He managed to kick it — him — into the one on its heels, and yank the gun from its holster under his arm, flick off the safety and fire it into the forehead of the woman grabbing for his arm, teeth snapping. He shot three more, four, five, six, before Sherlock reached down to help haul him up on top of the skip. Hands grabbed at him, teeth clacked, as he clambered up into Sherlock’s embrace — the skip was open and they teetered, but Sherlock prevented Lestrade from falling into the rotting garbage. 

They were surrounded. The sound of the gunshots had even more pushing and shoving their way into the alley.

Lestrade stomped groping fingers that wanted to latch onto his ankles. They quickly made their way to the side butted against the wall, putting the mass of the skip between themselves and the encroaching mob of infected. 

Gods! He was bloody tired! It made Lestrade sick to hurt these people, to shoot them, to hit them with the cricket bat, break their bones, crush their skulls… kill them — they were victims, infected by _something_ that turned them into mindless vectors for the disease. Once bitten, their only purpose seemed to be to bite other humans and spread the infection as far and as fast as possible. Holding them at bay in these numbers without hurting and even killing a few was impossible. And Lestrade didn’t fancy becoming one of them.

“Give me a boost, Lestrade.” Sherlock demanded. “I can reach the ladder.”

Lestrade nodded. He holstered his gun and secured the cricket bat by slipping it through his belt — it was a comfortingly unyielding block pressing against his ribs and hip — and held out his hands, weaving his fingers together. Not for the first time, Lestrade was grateful he’d found this pair of leather gloves. He bent, offering his hands as a step.

Sherlock wasted no time, using Lestrade’s shoulder as a handhold, he stepped onto his hands — it hurt and the bugger was heavy! Lestrade lifted up with all his strength, praying that the wanker knew what he was doing...

The weight on his hands dwindled and disappeared. Lestrade looked and saw Sherlock dangling from the ladder, trying to pull himself up. 

“You can do it, lad!” He encouraged. “Just... hook your leg over...”

“Shut up, Lestrade!” Sherlock struggled, swinging his legs, clinging to the ladder. Finally, he managed to get a lanky limb onto the platform and heaved himself up onto it where he lay panting. Lestrade could see his face, pale even for him and sweaty. “I know what I’m doing!”

“Then drop the bloody ladder before our friends here eat me!” 

Wearily, Sherlock nodded and rolled over, dropping an arm to unhook the ladder. It extended with a loud ringing that had Lestrade cringing, despite already being surrounded. He wasted no time, climbing to the platform and then pulling the ladder up behind him and securing it again — he didn’t think they could climb a ladder, but better to be safe. 

Lestrade leaned against the wall. He was knackered. They were safe for now, really safe, they could rest for a moment.

It had happened so fast. Yesterday morning Lestrade had gone to work as usual. The uniforms had been talking about some weird calls — an unusually high number of assaults and attacks on coppers when they tried to intervene. By noon, it was clear that something was very wrong — the attacks, by people of every class and profession, had increased exponentially and the ranks of uniformed police began to thin. 

It was frightening and no one knew what was going on — was it a new drug? Some kind of designer stimulant that made people feral? Or was it a virus? Bacterial warfare? A terror attack?!

Whatever it was, it was spreading. 

At three p.m., armed police were deployed to control “riots” at Trafalgar, Piccadilly Circus, and the Borough Market. At half seven, a state of emergency was declared and contingents of Royal Marines marched into the streets of London.

In between, Lestrade and his squad were issued firearms and sent out. It was surreal and terrifying — singly, and in small groups, the infected were manageable. They were muzzled and straightjacketed and bundled into police wagons bound for hospital…

…until a paramedic was bitten, infected, and turned on the coppers around him, biting two before they could restrain him. Lestrade watched as those two began to bite their fellows — then it was a melee, fighting the infected — other coppers! — with batons...

Lestrade fought until Sally Donovan — at his side, as always — was pulled into a bear hug by a burly copper, teeth snapping. Lestrade beat him off her with the butt of his gun... but it was too late. Her cheek torn and stained with crimson.

“Run!” She whispered. “Boss, go!” Lestrade watched the awareness, the personality, drain from her eyes and she clutched at him, opening her mouth wide.

All around him, cops were being overrun, overcome by the growing crowd of infected...

Lestrade, grabbed DC Smythe — the only unbitten he could see — and ran.

It was several, gruelling, terrifying hours before he recognised Baker Street. Lestrade fought his way to 221B and pounded on the door, shouting to be let in — dangerous, by then he knew that the silent infected were attracted by loud noises. Every infected in earshot followed him to Sherlock and John’s door.

Lestrade was relieved when Sherlock threw open the door, grabbed him and yanked him inside whilst Mrs Hudson closed and barred the door behind him.

“Just in time.” Sherlock snapped. “I have to go get John. He’s been at the clinic far too long.”

By then it was full dark and Royal Marines were shooting people in the streets. The rat-a-tat of their guns sounding near and far.

“You can’t go out now!” Lestrade insisted. “They’re everywhere! I barely made it here. And if you aren’t infected, you’ll be shot.” He showed the consulting detective his arm where a bullet had grazed, tearing the fabric of his coat. “They’re shooting everything that moves.”

“John said he was fine, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson fussed. “He said it was too dangerous.”

“You talked to him.” Lestrade realised. “On your phone.” He’d lost his somewhere between the Yard and Baker Street.

Sherlock looked helpless and truculent at once. “We _have_ to go get him!”

“Yeah? What will John do when you get yourself killed?” Lestrade demanded. “You _know_ what happens to soulmates when one of you dies. Don’t do that to him.”

“Fine! I’ll go myself!” Before Greg could stop him, Sherlock flung open the door.

The stoop was crowded with infected.

Lestrade pushed Mrs Hudson behind him and extended his baton with a flick of his wrist. “Shut the bloody door!” He cried, smashing the foremost infected in the face. 

Sherlock, to his credit, got the door closed in an instant — mostly closed. There were arms caught between it and the door jamb, arms with snapping teeth right behind them, pushing the door open again.

Lestrade turned his back to the door and braced his feet, holding them at bay for the moment. “Mrs Hudson, go upstairs — Sherlock, take her upstairs!”

He met Sherlock’s eyes fiercely. For once, the bloody idiot did what he was told, picking Mrs Hudson up and running up the stairs. He was halfway back down when Lestrade couldn’t hold the door any longer. He propelled himself upwards, grabbing a handful of wool coat as he ran, dragging the infuriating man with him. At the top they locked the doors and barricaded them with the furniture.

Lestrade wanted to scream at Sherlock! They’d all been safe indoors and the wanker had invited twenty infected inside! Instead, he took them both to the loo and shut the door.

“If you want to live to see John again, the first thing you need to know.” He whispered. “Is that they can _hear you_! They’re attracted to sound.”

“But—"

“Shut up.” Lestrade snarled. “And listen. We’re stuck here for the night. It’s too dangerous in the dark— if the infected don’t get you, the marines will. _In the morning,_ I will go with you to John’s clinic. In the morning when we can bloody see where we’re going — when we can avoid getting ourselves shot.”

“John—"

“John is a combat veteran.” Lestrade interrupted. “He can handle himself. Call him.” He prodded. “Call and ask him. He already told you to stay put.”

Lestrade got his way — and he got a few hours’ restless sleep on Sherlock’s bed, next to Mrs Hudson. 

Before dawn, Sherlock rang John again — Lestrade had heard him murmuring on the phone several times overnight — but was repeatedly sent to voicemail.

“Probably out of juice.” Lestrade observed, watching Sherlock touch his soulmark with his thumb, tapping the tips of his first three fingers over and over, one-two-three, one-two-three. John had three short streaks of the same blue on his palm and the inside of his index finger. He’d told Lestrade that he’d handed his phone to Sherlock when they first met, and they had touched accidentally. It changed both their lives.

Lestrade packed a rucksack with water, energy bars, torches, and his extendable police baton. Sherlock rummaged in his closet and came out with the bartitsu stick and the cricket bat — Lestrade had gone right for the cricket bat. He kept his firearm for emergencies. They dressed carefully with biters in mind — Lestrade finding the pair of brown leather gloves in the pocket of the donkey coat he borrowed — then, after consulting a map and marking several ways to John’s clinic, they wiggled out the window in the loo onto the roof. 

Roofs were brilliant, high above all the dangers — until they got to the corner. 

The gunfire had thinned overnight. Now there was the occasional crack of a pistol or the bup-bup-bup of an automatic rifle, but mostly it was eerily silent — no traffic, no trains, no sirens, no voices or strains of music. Nothing.

Either London had realised that noise attracted the infected, or most of London was infected.

Sherlock broke a window — an excruciatingly loud sound — and they climbed from the roof into the topmost flat. The tenant was home, a frightened-looking city boy who was happy to see the back of them with naught but a smashed window. They ran down the stairs, grateful for the thick, sound-muffling carpet, then eased open the front door and slipped out.

Ten blocks and a number of near-death experiences later, they encountered the horde and Lestrade had dragged Sherlock into the alley. Within an hour of leaving 221 Baker Street, they had been forced to retreat to this fire escape with a crowd of shambolic cannibals below.

Lestrade pulled out the map and studied it. He had no idea how they would make it to John’s clinic. Maybe if they had a tank...

What was that?

Movement in the corner of his eye. Immediately on guard, Lestrade scanned the fire escape, the windows in the building adjacent, the roofline over their heads — there! A CCTV camera was turning towards them. Lestrade waved.

Sherlock’s phone trilled. “You didn’t set it to silent!?” Lestrade snapped furiously. The absolute wanker! The ringing was riling the mob below, more pressing in, trampling their fellows underfoot. 

Sherlock made no move to answer his phone. Lestrade snatched it from his coat.

“Hello?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, how delightful to discover you alive.”

“Hullo, Mycroft.” Lestrade answered. “Erm... help?”

“A helicopter is on the way. If you could trouble yourselves to climb up to the roof.”

“Yeah, ok... erm... we left Mrs Hudson at Sherlock’s...” 

“Ah. You can stop for her on your way here.”

“We have to get John.” Lestrade told him — shooting a worried look at Sherlock, laying in the foetal position at his feet. “That’s where Sherlock and I were going...”

“Taken care of.” Mycroft said.

“You have him? Is he—?”

“A helicopter is en route to the clinic now. Rest assured, Lestrade, it’s all in hand.”

“What if he’s...” Lestrade didn’t finish the sentence, not with Sherlock right there. But Mycroft, of course, understood him.

“God forbid!” Mycroft snapped — they both knew neither Sherlock nor John would deal well with losing the other. “Do you have reason to believe that may be the case?” Mycroft’s voice had sharpened — Lestrade could hear the elder Holmes straining to decode every nuance of their conversation. 

“How could I?” Lestrade asked. He wasn’t about to tell Mycroft about Sherlock’s greyed out soulmark, not with Sherlock listening. He heard the rhythm of chopper blades approaching. “Just... tell ‘em to be careful. Ok, we’re heading up to the roof now.”

—

The helicopter took them to a helipad on top of a building outside London. Mycroft was waiting for them, his ubiquitous PA at his side. He looked impeccable as always, his suit crisp, his tie tucked neatly into his waistcoat. How did the man manage to look so good in the middle of the apocalypse?

Lestrade had the same impulse he always had when he encountered Mycroft Holmes — to unbutton all those buttons, muss that auburn hair, ruin the perfectly-put-together man with his mouth and hands...

He shoved that thought away hard — it was inappropriate at the best of times and it was downright criminal now. 

“Where’s John?!” Sherlock demanded, striding towards his brother. “Where is he!?”

“Not yet arrived, I’m afraid.” Mycroft said, looking ever so slightly alarmed at his brother’s vehemence. He glanced at Anthea who showed him the screen of her smartphone. “My team is still at the clinic. You’ll just have to wait, brother-mine.”

Sherlock’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot and he was deathly pale — Lestrade knew Mycroft had to have noticed, but he was putting on quite the show of nothing-to-see-here. Lestrade was glad — he still hoped John might be ok. Thus, when Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, Lestrade intervened. 

“Mrs Hudson, you’re freezing! Come on, let’s get you inside.” The sly old woman — who legitimately appeared to be uncomfortably cold — took Sherlock’s arm and Mycroft led them indoors. 

They were in some sort of military fortress with thick cement walls and windows too narrow for even a child to wiggle through. Lestrade thought that if castles were still being built, it might look like this — grand and impenetrable.

Mycroft showed them the suite of rooms in which they would stay — fancier than barracks, they each had a small private bedroom off a central living space that combined lounge, kitchen and dining. Lestrade’s room had bare white walls, a narrow bed and a chest of drawers. He laid the leather gloves on the bureau and hung his borrowed coat on a hook in an attempt to make it feel more lived in. The result made him sad.

There were separate loos for men and women and whilst Anthea showed Mrs Hudson where to freshen up, Mycroft descended upon Lestrade. With a significant look, he took Lestrade down the hallway to an office where he shut the door behind them.

“Shoulda kept my coat on.” Lestrade remarked, shivering. He wasn’t certain if it was cold in the office or if, now that he was safe, he was suffering from shock.

“Ah, apologies, Inspector. Allow me.” Mycroft turned on a space heater. Lestrade sighed as he stood in front of it, letting its heat bake his legs. “Now tell me what you know.”

“Nothing, really.”

“My brother is clearly distraught — more than he should be for mere separation from his soulmate, even under these circumstances.”

“Yeah... he couldn’t get John on the phone this morning — or you, for that matter.”

Mycroft winced. “Yes, I had hoped to be able to collect my brother sooner, but I was unfortunately delayed.”

“Yeah?” 

“The deputy director became infected and bit his way through the records and research.” Mycroft sighed. “Anthea and I were trapped in a bunker most of the night — without cell service. We had to await our own rescue before I could affect yours.” Mycroft fixed him with a glare. “Now tell me what I don’t know.”

“His soulmark.” Lestrade held up his fingers. 

Mycroft looked stricken. “It’s disappeared!?” 

“No. It’s gone grey. Dead grey.”

“Oh... oh!” Mycroft’s expression crumbled as he realised the import. He picked up a handset and demanded a sitrep from the captain of the squad retrieving John Watson. “If you find the target infected, he is not to be harmed. Restrain him and bring him here. Yes, _here_. I will deal with that, captain. Now get it done!”

Lestrade saw the misery on the tall man’s face. “Mycroft...”

Mycroft glanced at Lestrade. “There are doctors here, searching for a cure — a vaccine, an antidote... something… my brother will want to work with them.

“Yeah.” Lestrade agreed. 

He watched as Mycroft smoothed his features into the bland, slightly mocking mask he habitually wore and his heart ached for the man. 

Dismissed, Lestrade returned to his spartan bedroom. Deciding he had time to fulfil his own greatest wish, he grabbed a set of the clothes folded on top of the bureau in his room and took himself off to the shower. 

He had been ignoring the state of his clothing as much as possible, but shedding them was a relief. Lestrade was faintly appalled at the amount of blood staining the soiled fabrics — getting to Baker Street the day before had been harrowing. 

The shower was nirvana. He washed away the horror of the last twenty-four hours, scrubbing himself with soap and a flannel, sudsing the crisp bits out of his hair... some of the things that he’d done…

Lestrade came back to himself minutes later, hands against the tile wall, cooling water cascading down his body. There were bruises on his arms and legs — red, green, lurid purple — none as bright as a soulmark would be. Lestrade wondered if his never-found soulmate was dead now. Or infected. He shuddered.

He dried quickly, ignoring the pile of filthy clothes and donned the kit provided — military issue boxers, khaki trousers and a white cotton t-shirt. They all fit, if a bit more snugly than Lestrade would have chosen for himself.

Back in his room, he found socks and combat boots, which he laced and tied carefully, and a wool jumper that began to make him feel warm. 

Lestrade carefully cleaned the brown leather gloves, thinking he might need them again before this was all over. He discovered teeth marks up near his wrist. 

—-

John was brought to the fortress fifty minutes later. He was dishevelled, the knees of his trousers torn and the flesh abraded. He had what appeared to be a ball gag in his mouth and a military-grade straightjacket buckled securely around his torso. His ankles were bound together with duct tape. Four grim soldiers carried him, bucking and squirming, into the building. Lestrade learned later that the rescue team had lost five soldiers retrieving John Watson — John had reportedly infected two himself. There was still gore on his chin.

When Sherlock saw him, he made an inhuman noise — a gurning wail that made John struggle towards him, attracted by the sound. 

Sherlock flatly refused to leave his soulmate, so Lestrade accompanied him and the soldiers down innumerable flights of stairs until he was certain they were underground. There they put John into a plexiglass cage and locked the door. Sherlock sank down against the plexi and watched John writhe on the floor.

Lestrade was far from confident that left alone, Sherlock wouldn’t pick the lock and unbuckle the ball gag, allow John to infect him with whatever this was. 

“Mycroft says they’re looking for a cure.” Lestrade said.

Sherlock gazed up at Lestrade, narrowing his eyes. He watched the distraught man formulate and reject several responses. Lestrade girded himself for an onslaught, but when Sherlock finally spoke, he sounded thoughtful. “How far along are they?”

“How should I know?” Lestrade asked. “You’re the scientist.”

That furrowed the younger man’s pale brow. “Show me.” He demanded.

“Come on.” 

Reluctantly, Sherlock left John. 

There was — Lestrade was vastly relieved to discover — a lift. He hadn’t been looking forward to climbing up all those stairs — Lestrade wouldn’t have minded taking the lift _down_. But he could appreciate the wisdom of not trapping yourself in a lift with an infected person, no matter how well restrained. 

Back on their floor, Lestrade took Sherlock to Mycroft’s office. 

The space heater was still on. After the stairs, Lestrade found the room stuffy.

Mycroft took one look at his brother, eyes shrewd, and deduced his brother was ready to start working on a cure. “Follow me.” He said...

...and stumbled over the cord to the space heater. Lestrade saw it happening as if in slow motion, the taller man teetering... 

...Lestrade leapt forward, arms outstretched...

…he caught Mycroft awkwardly, hugging him to his chest, feeling the man’s weight cascading down, piling onto him, heavy... 

...felt the “oof” of the air being knocked from his lungs... 

...their cheeks...

…brushed…

...a roughness of stubble…

…and pressed…

…an intense burning that almost made Lestrade fall backwards, sprawl them both on the floor. He cried out, shocked and overwhelmed — even as he felt Mycroft jerk and gasp and scrabble against him...

Then they were standing up, Lestrade steadying them both with his hands. Mycroft’s eyes were round and amazed and Lestrade could not tear his gaze from the other man, off the solid, grassy-green smudge along Mycroft’s jaw. 

Abruptly Lestrade knew he had a matching green mark on his own cheek. His hand flew up without his volition and touched it. It flared and sparked and he felt his soulmate’s deep distress at his brother’s misfortune, felt the anchor of love that bound Mycroft to Sherlock, felt the shock and ashamed delight that _Lestrade_ was the mate of his soul! A soul he had long doubted even existed...

“Oh, fuck no!” Sherlock gasped. Lestrade felt Mycroft’s attention — and his own — snap back to his brother.

Mycroft drew himself up, his expression smoothing to a careful blankness. Lestrade wanted to weep, he wanted to celebrate the wonderful thing that had just happened to them, wanted to cradle Mycroft and reassure him, support him, wanted to protect Mycroft from the hurts and harms of the world — but he couldn’t! He couldn’t! Not now.

Or maybe he could... Lestrade called on his own reserves of strength and good-nature, building it up, projecting it... 

He saw Mycroft relax infinitesimally and they both turned to Sherlock. For the first time, Lestrade fully understood the tragedy that had befallen the younger man — he had a new and vital understanding of exactly what he had lost.

“John... oh, John...” Sherlock wept openly now, backing away, curling in on himself.

“Come, brother, let me show you the laboratory.” Mycroft said gently.

“Come on, Sherlock.” Lestrade urged. “There has to be a cure. If anyone can find it, it’s you.”

But Sherlock shrank from them, backing into the hall. “No... no! Not now...”

They hovered for a moment, wanting to help Sherlock… with a sigh, Mycroft retreated. He pressed a button on the side of his desk. “Anthea? I need you in my office.”

Immediately she appeared, coming through from the living quarters. “Sir?” Anthea’s eyes widened as she spotted the green patch on her boss’s jaw, but she said nothing.

“Please show my brother to the laboratory and introduce him to Dr Abidi. Make sure he has whatever he requires.”

“If you’ll follow me.” Lestrade watched Sherlock stalk away, trembling hands betraying his composure. Lestrade wondered when the last time was that he’d slept. Or eaten. 

“I’ll be back.” Letrade told Mycroft. It felt _wrong_ to leave him, felt like his heart was being torn from his chest. But there were things Lestrade needed to do.

He found Sherlock’s lab on the third try, found him writing formulae on a whiteboard, slides and samples and someone’s notes spread out on the table. “What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded without stopping or turning around. “You should be with _him_.”

“I brought you some food.” Lestrade said.

Sherlock scoffed.

“When is that last time you ate?” He asked — the younger man hadn’t eaten anything at Baker Street.

“You know I don’t eat when I’m thinking. It slows me down.”

“Won’t be thinking long if you don’t eat. Brain needs carbohydrate to function.” Lestrade told him.

“I _know_ the chemistry, Lestrade. Your lecture is as unnecessary as it is ridiculous.” Sherlock snapped. “Now go away.”

Ignoring him, Lestrade began unloading the box he’d brought. “There’s orange juice — no digestion required, lots of sugar to fuel your brain. Bananas. Mrs Hudson made you a sandwich — she said it has that cheese you like — and she’s baking scones now. I’ll bring some down when they’re out of the oven. I’m afraid there’s no clotted cream, but there’s jam…”

“LEAVE! ME! ALONE!” Sherlock bellowed, turning on him.

“Yep.” Lestrade replied evenly. “As soon as you eat.” 

Sherlock stared at Lestrade’s cheek for a long moment, then turned away. “It’s _John_ , Lestrade.” He begged. “Leave me alone so I can help John.” He was touching his thumb to his fingertips again, one-two-three, on the grey of his fingertips.

“I know it’s John.” Lestrade said calmly. “That’s why I’m here, Sherlock. _Because it’s John_.” He crossed the lab to stand next to Sherlock, bottle of orange juice in hand. 

“You don’t understand.” Sherlock whispered, desolate.

“No, I think I _do_ — I didn’t, not really. But now…” Reflexively, he touched the green mark on his cheek. “Now I know.”

Sherlock sighed, long and low. “Give it to me” Lestrade handed over the juice and Sherlock twisted off the cap and drank it down, all twelve ounces. When it was empty, he handed it back to Lestrade and returned to the whiteboard.

Lestrade watched him for a minute, then turned to go.

“I don’t begrudge you.” Sherlock’s voice was even, unemotional.

He had not turned from scrawling his formulae. “No? I’m glad.”

“I’m amazed that _Mycroft_ has a soul.”

“Nice.”

You’re stuck with him now.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“With _Mycroft_ , Lestrade!”

“I get it.” 

“John shouldn’t miss this — we have a bet about Mycroft’s soulmate…”

Of course they did. “Did he have money on me?” Lestrade asked.

“You? No. He thought it might be the Queen. Or Angela Merkel. I was certain that if my brother had a soulmate, it was an endless supply of fairy cakes.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

Sherlock half turned, looked at Lestrade obliquely. “Don’t hurt him.”

Lestrade couldn’t completely supress his smile. “Never.”

“Now get out. I have work to do.”

\---

“How is he?” Mycroft asked as he closed his office door behind Lestrade.

Lestrade set the tray down on the table Mycroft had moved out from the wall. “As well as can be expected. He ate a little. I think he was waiting for me to leave to eat more.”

“I don’t think I have ever told you… Gregory…” Mycroft seemed to be tasting the name. “How grateful I have been for your care of Sherlock — you have been very good for him. Without you… I am not confident my brother would still be amongst the living.”

“You’re giving me too much credit.” Lestrade told him. 

“I assure you I am not.” Mycroft said. He gazed at Lestrade for a moment, at the irregular grassy green soulmark on his cheek. Lestrade smiled at him and he coloured and looked down at the bowls of soup on the tray, at the sandwiches. “This looks lovely. Thank you.”

“We all have to eat. Sit.” 

“Yes.” Mycroft agreed. Lestrade pulled out a chair for his new soulmate who sat after a slight hesitation. He watched Lestrade pull the other chair around, to sit closer, and begin setting the meal out in front of them. His eyes strayed to Lestrade’s cheek again, to the soulmark there. “I, ehm… I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.” 

“Disappointed? Mycroft, we’re safe, we have food and protection… showers and beds. There are scientists working on a cure… John is being treated humanely… Anthea says there’s even a gym… I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else at the end of the world. I only wish…”

“Yes?”

Lestrade sighed. “That I could have brought more. Sally, my Sergeant… Phillips and Sanjit… Gregson… none of them made it… oh God, I’m glad me mum didn’t live to see this!”

“You’ve lost the people closest to you.”

“A lot of them, yeah. But there have to be people out there, uninfected, hiding out. We have to do something for them.”

“Rest assured that we are. I’ve been in constant contact with the PM and the Chief of the Defence Staff.”

“So, Boris made it.” Lestrade wasn’t a fan. He hoped the man would rise to the occasion.

“I’m afraid not. The Home Secretary was sworn in last night.”

“Home Secretary? Not the Deputy PM?”

“The Deputy PM is currently being held, awaiting a cure. As is the Defence Minister.”

“Bloody hell, Mycroft.”

“Indeed. We are formulating plans to mount a rescue of uninfected Londoners whilst containing the infected — without shooting them willy-nilly like those trigger-happy marines.” Mycroft said testily.

“Don’t blame them. You have no idea what it was like… it spread so fast! Blokes I know changing in front of my eyes and attacking… infected coming from all sides…”

Mycroft took his hand. “Good lord… Gregory…”

“I’m just saying, don’t judge them.”

Mycroft nodded, thoughtfully. “The PM is _very_ hopeful that they can be recovered — some of the experts believe the disease simply has to run its course.” Mycroft looked dubious. “That would be a best-case-scenario.”

“But you aren’t counting on it.”

“I am planning for the worst. I’ll be speaking with the Queen this evening.”

Lestrade chuckled. “HRH survived.”

“ _Always_.” 

“And the rest of them?” Lestrade wasn’t anti-royal, he simply didn’t care overmuch one way or the other. But he knew that Mycroft cared.

“The ones that matter are secure.”

“Ouch.” Lestrade laughed. “Someday you’ll have to tell me which ones those are.”

“Someday.” Mycroft agreed. He paused, his face assuming the considered blankness Lestrade knew so well. “Gregory, when I asked if you were disappointed… I wasn’t speaking of the accommodations. I meant… about this.” He touched his jaw, his fingers lingering on the green smudge. He avoided Lestrade’s eyes, studying his soup instead.

“What do you mean? That it’s on my face? Our faces? It’s not that unusual — I knew a bloke had a permanent black eye — except it was pink — where his soulmate had punched him.” Lestrade smiled. “And this way, there’s no doubt that you’re mine.” The smile faltered. “I hope that’s acceptable.”

“I’m yours…” Mycroft blinked and a look of cautious wonder overtook his face. “Yes, yes, quite acceptable. _Yours_.” He repeated, his astonishment and pleasure beginning to displace the insecurity that Lestrade was startled to detect. “You must be... surprised.”

Lestrade smiled and held out his hand. Mycroft took it and his soulmark flared, pumping endorphins into Lestrade’s bloodstream. “Yes. And pleased.”

“Oh? Yes! I too am pleased.” Mycroft simply stared at him for a moment, holding his hand. Then his face fell again and he cleared his throat. “Whilst it is _traditional_ that soulmates have a, ehm… sexual relationship… I would never presume — in fact, I believe my brother and John have never shared a bed…”

No way he wanted a platonic soulmate. John Watson could be as repressed as he wanted, Greg Lestrade liked sex! “I’ve always fancied you, Mycroft.” He said frankly.

“What? No...”

Lestrade chuckled. “I think you’d know if I were lying.”

“You… never said anything.”

“I thought you knew — that you deduced it years ago. I figured if you were interested, you’d make a move. You never did.”

“I didn’t know that you would… consider… a man.” 

“No? Thought you’d have a file on me ten centimetres thick.” Lestrade chuckled. 

“I do.”

“Yeah?” Lestrade tried to gauge his seriousness, but saw nothing to contradict it. He shrugged. “My boyfriends didn’t make the cut?”

“Boyfriends?!” Mycroft looked momentarily furious. “I shall have to have a word with the research department!” He winced. “If anyone is left.”

“Don’t blame them. I was discreet — wouldn’t have gone over well at the Yard back in the day.”

“Ah yes.” Mycroft did not look ready to forgive the oversight, but he tucked the emotion away. “You were ambitious.”

“I wanted to be a detective.” Lestrade agreed, thinking that his definition of ‘ambitious’ might not line up with Mycroft’s. “Seriously, you didn’t know that I fancied you?”

“I’m afraid that deduction is notoriously unreliable where sentiment is concerned.” He said ruefully.

“Sentiment?”

“Detective Inspector... _Gregory_... you must know that you’re a very attractive man, and I am not immune to your charms. But... over time… I’ve also grown to respect and to… to care about you...”

Lestrade smiled and leaned closer to Mycroft — to his soulmate. “Kiss me.” He said, touching the vibrant patch of green on Mycroft’s jaw. 

With the merest gasp, Mycroft pressed his mouth to Lestrade’s. Lestrade gently pulled him closer, deepening the kiss, licking the seam of his soulmate’s lips until they opened and their tongues met... 

Minutes later, Lestrade was panting, clinging to Mycroft’s shoulders, _wanting_ him desperately.

“Sleep with me tonight.” Lestrade suggested, admiring how dishevelled the auburn locks had become. “Bed’s a little small... but...”

“I’ll have a bigger one brought in.” Mycroft vowed.

“From outside?” Lestrade asked, alarmed. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“No, my dear, from the stores in this building...”

Lestrade smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling with pleasure. “My brilliant soulmate.” He said and kissed Mycroft again. “It’s not right, is it, to be so happy… with everything that’s going on.”

“Gregory, you have made me the happiest of men.” Mycroft said. “But no, it’s not proper to feel so lucky, so delighted, during a national crisis of this magnitude.”

God! We’ve known each other for eight years! And we never once… only to find out _now_!” Lestrade huffed. “And in front of Sherlock! I wish he hadn’t seen it.” He shifted his weight towards Mycroft. “But I wouldn’t change it, that it’s you.”

Mycroft looked at him in wonder. “Gregory.”

Lestrade wrapped his arms around his soulmate. “I’ll tell you a secret: I can’t wait for the Queen to see your soulmark.”

Mycroft turned pink, making the lovely, grassy green soulmark stand out even more. “Oh! I hadn’t thought…”

Lestrade kissed him again, bursting with unabashed joy. “I want her to know that you’re mine. I want everyone to know!” He laughed and touched his soulmate’s jaw. “And everyone will!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this short fic. 
> 
> I always appreciate your thoughts and suggestions.


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